Fever Dreams
Genres: Mystery/Supernatural
Summary: You are not dreaming, what you see is very much real. Where does forever exist? / Rendershipping (Pegasus x Seto x Jonouchi), Toon, Puppy
A/N: Written for Round Fourteen of the YGO Fanfiction Contest – the pairing is Rendershipping (Pegasus x Seto x Jonouchi), and in that same vein the story contains plenty of Toonshipping (Pegasus x Seto) and Puppyshipping (Seto x Jonouchi) in particular. This story deviates from the point in manga canon where Pegasus dies after the Duelist Kingdom arc. I've wanted to write this story for a long time, and I'm glad that I've finally got the chance.
Fever Dreams
The phone at Seto's desk rings. He stares at it for a moment, knowing he doesn't have any more conference calls or appointments for the day—in fact, he should be leaving soon, to be able to make it home in time for dinner—and his secretary would only have put through a call if it was important. He snatches up the receiver by the end of the second ring, placing it against his ear as he leans back in his chair, aware of every sound it makes as the metal squeaks and the leather stretches.
"Am I speaking to Mr. Seto Kaiba?"
"Of course you are," he answers, not recognizing the voice. "Who is this? Whatever it is, make it quick."
"As you wish." There is a chuckle to the voice, a professional sort of composure and maintenance in the delivery of the words. "Mr. Kaiba, I regret to inform you that Pegasus J. Crawford has died."
The air that leaves his mouth is not accompanied by a word, but it isn't quite a gasp or sigh of shock. Rather, the exhale is toneless and brief. A hand finds its way into his hair to scratch an itch at the top of his head.
"—I assure you, this is no joke," the voice continues. "Mr. Kaiba?"
He must find his voice again. It is not shock that causes his fingers to shake as one hand grips the cradle and the fingers of the other trail their way to a spot behind his right ear, prodding the skin with fingertips that do little to resolve the irritation.
"Please explain then how I am hearing this from the other end of a phone and not from the evening news? Why would I be notified of Crawford's death?" Memories resurface from their place piled deep beneath the carpet of his mind, of a moment lost in time when his soul was no longer his at all but bound to a flimsy piece of paper, his own ultimate defeat. His dealings with the man called Pegasus Crawford before and after that had never been delicate, after all. There had always been something there, a level of competition and derision, between two people who were too similar to stand one another—
"You see, Mr. Kaiba, you were left something in the will. Something—so we had to contact you." The voice breaks its composure, and Seto listens on the other side for the patterns of breathing and attitude in the speech. It is different now. "The provisions are very specific. The executor will be sent to your office no more than three business days from now to convey the contents. We must set up an appointment. What time would be most beneficial for you?"
The idea that anything of value had been left to him by Crawford was ludicrous. "Tomorrow, then," Seto says acidly. "The earlier this is settled, the better."
"I couldn't agree more. Two o'clock?"
A quick glance at his planner is enough to tell him the time is free. "Two it is."
"Thank you for your time," the voice finishes smoothly. "Good day, Mr. Kaiba."
There is nothing but a dial tone to respond to, but Seto allows himself the slightest of laugher, soft and bitter as he leans into the steady noise. "Is it a good day when someone dies?" Another laugh, and the phone is dropped back onto the cradle with a bang. "Good riddance."
One of the many empty conference rooms in the Kaiba Corporation Tower is suitable. The executor enters, a small, bespectacled man in a suit of surprisingly high quality. He asks if the room has a television. Seto motions him towards the media tower with a wave of one hand, and after fiddling with the buttons and controls for a moment he returns, dropping his shoulders apologetically.
"I'm sorry sir, but the equipment here does not have the capabilities to play a tape…Mr. Crawford specifically recorded this particular provision on tape, and we will need to find a suitable machine to play it for you…"
Somewhere in his grave, Crawford is laughing. Wherever that might be—Seto doesn't know if he's even been buried yet. Perhaps he'll simply be cremated instead. Thinking about it, and by extension thinking of his own will on file, makes him uncomfortable, so he presses the button on his phone to connect to his secretary, growling into it about a television with VCR compatibilities. Did the building even have one?
"Find it," he says shortly. "I want one here in five minutes. Go out and buy one if you have to, I don't give a damn." After his short stint on Duelist Kingdom, he was determined never to allow Crawford to in any way control any part of himself, even his time. Now, in his death, here he was again, waiting for the dead man to speak.
Five minutes later, an assistant wheels in the most ancient television Seto has ever seen, a huge, clunky black box that the notary is able to quickly plug in and pop the tape into the slot, and as the machine powers up it almost seems to whine with the static. The blackness of the screen eventually fades into motion, replaced by the recording that was made specifically for him. It's not lost on Seto, and as he watches Crawford—dressed in his own definition of elegance as always, glass of red wine in one hand—enters, settling himself in an armchair of deep red leather. He gives the camera a look, and Seto wonders who is behind the camera filming, or if there is even a person there at all.
"My dear Seto Kaiba! It's been a while, hmm? Much too long, if you ask me." The effect is unnerving. The television is large, the volume turned up much too loud, and combined it makes Seto feel like Crawford might very well be in that same room, merely a few yards across from where Seto himself is seated. Only a flickering light in the ceiling above destroys the illusion.
"But you didn't, of course. It's such a shame, that our last meeting had to end so badly. I've decided to make you a gift, Seto, and I hope you won't refuse it. It would be so unkind, after I went to all the trouble." He laughs, taking a sip of the wine, never breaking eye contact with the lens.
"Let's get straight to business, then, as I'm sure you would prefer," he says. "I would like to give you full control and rights to the production and design of the Duel Monsters cards after my death. They are currently under my own company, but you would be free to do whatever you like with the equipment and the cards themselves. Just think of it, Seto, the ability to print and sell the cards—why, you'll control it all, won't you?"
He was thinking of it. The executor's presence was the only thing keeping Seto's wild confusion contained as he processed Crawford's words. Why had Crawford chosen him?
"Ah, but there is a catch." He spreads his arms open, as if in apology. "I couldn't just give it to you for free. I'm not that generous." Crawford's voice drops in pitch, staring straight at the lens through the curtain of silver hair perpetually covering the left eye.
"I keep a house near Domino," he continues. "What you must do is reside within its walls for ten days—the next ten days, in fact—and the technology and all its rights are yours."
There is silence, and not even Seto's breathing makes a sound as the two stare at each other through a thick plate of glass and a series of digital cells and colors painting a dead man back to life. Seto watches Crawford breathe instead, wine glass neglected. Seto tries to move, but even the act of tilting his head is unpleasant, so consumed are his thoughts in the what-could-be's of the Industrial Illusions technology.
"Decide quickly, Seto," he says, finally breaking the silence. "Should you choose to accept, have the executor drive you to my mansion. It's an old home that's been in the family for generations. You'll love it."
Beside Seto, the executor begins to shuffle through some papers in a briefcase of dark leather. A series of tight, printed pages emerge. "The full details will be given to you," Crawford continues. "Once the ten days have passed, you are free to go, if you wish."
He laughs again, and for once breaks his connection with the lens to glance off to the side, leaning back to catch the camera's gaze from just the corner of his eye. "Know what's good for you and take the deal, Seto." His head lifts again, lips parting in the barest of smiles, the corners of the mouth drawn up. "Until we meet again."
The tape stops and the television screen erupts into static once more.
Sighing, Seto leans back in his own chair, an uncomfortable creation of black plastic. The executor hands him the papers—copies of the will, his mind gathers—and he reads through it with alacrity, mood sinking as his eyes scan each provision.
"Should you wish to accept the terms of Mr. Crawford's offer, we are to take you to your house at the close of the current business day and, once you have packed, transport you to the Crawford mansion." The executor cannot keep his own confusion from seeping into his words. "The house will be prepared with enough food and supplies for the duration of your stay." They both seem to be wondering it—why would Crawford go to all this trouble, and why do so for Seto?
"It says here I'm not allowed to bring any electronic devices with me. No computers, not even a cell phone," he says, stabbing the particular line with one finger. "This is nonsense. How am I supposed to operate a company and be out of contact for ten days?"
"I'm sure, should you accept, they will find a way to survive," the executor replies. The raised eyebrows and posture seem to ask, 'is your staff not capable? Do you not trust them and your brother with your company? "You must sign here, on this page, to agree to the terms. Should you forfeit any of them—including the electronics provision or leave the house before the time is up, I'm afraid the agreement will be nullified." He shrugs. "I didn't write it. I'd tell you to take it up with the man who did, but I'm afraid he's dead."
Seto only has to think about it for a moment. What the control of the printing processes and rights to the production of Duel Monsters cards could mean to his company…
The profits alone would be worth it, he tries to convince himself, fingers hovering in the empty space of his jacket pockets, unwilling to reach for the notary's offered pen until he was absolutely sure.
For the good of the company. For the good of its financial future.
He reaches for the pen, grasping it between thin fingers and signing on the allotted line. "I accept his terms."
"Then we will leave as soon as you are ready," the executor says, returning the papers to his briefcase and folding it by his side. "After you, sir."
For the good of the company. For his own good—the words repeat themselves on an endless, recursive loop over and over in Seto's mind. Know what's good for you and take the deal, Seto. A pause, a knowing glance over a curtain of immaculate silver hair. Until we meet again.
Mokuba watches Seto throw clothes and books into a suitcase almost at random, reading over the copy of the will entrusted to Seto as one of the beneficiaries. "Seto, think of the cards! What's the first thing you're going to do to them?"
"I'll take all the toon cards out of print," he mutters, struggling with the zipper.
"You were late for dinner last night," Mokuba comments. "Maybe we should install some heating lamps in the kitchen—you know, like the kind the restaurants have?"
"If you want them, get them. You're in charge of the house and the company for the next ten days, you know."
"Try to check in if you can, brother," Mokuba says. "There's got to be a phone in the place you're going. Do you really think Crawford could live without technology any better than you could?"
Seto straightens, sliding the suitcase from the top of the dresser onto the floor. "That's a good point."
"I can't believe some of the stuff he's put in here," Mokuba continues, handing the documents back to Seto. "You can't cause any structural damage to the house?" He shrugs. "I've never heard of something like this, but if it works out the company is going to skyrocket!"
Mokuba's own smile grows wider upon seeing one of Seto's rare grins as the older brother reaches forward to ruffle Mokuba's hair. "Don't get into too much trouble. I'll see you in ten days. That's not long at all."
"Alright," he replies. "Take care of yourself."
After the first thirty minutes of driving, the empty swaths of road stretch on before them in curves over the terrain, lined on either side by tall trees that turn into a blur as the car drives past. Seto had not asked how long the drive would take, but as the time inches closer to an hour they finally approach a wide lane set into the hill to the left, and Seto can see the first glimpses of a massively tall, wrought-iron gate stretching across the land through the forest of trees.
The gate the car stops at is wide open, and the car drives through slowly, down the long road leading to the large brick house set at the top of the hill.
"I'll have to lock you in," the executor says with only a trace of apology. "It's the only way to really make sure the provisions are met."
"That's fine," Seto mutters, twisting his body to the side to get a better view of the house, unwilling to say just how false his words had been; the idea of being locked inside the house was extremely disconcerting to him. As he studies the architecture of the building, Seto cannot seem to find an ounce of Crawford in it. It looks nothing like his castle at Duelist Kingdom, yet it is a castle all the same. It is in elegant disrepair, with flaking paint on the black shutters and half-dead plants surrounding the circular driveway and wide front steps.
"Does Mr. Crawford employ staff here?" Seto asks.
"Typically, I'm sure he would," the executor answers. "But seeing as he's dead, they've been relieved of work. You're on your own, Mr. Kaiba."
Seto carries his own suitcase in one hand, a briefcase full of papers in the other. The executor does not ask to inspect either, as both consider a signature on a piece of paper equitable with honor. He walks only as far as the foyer before stopping.
"I will depart, if you have no further need of me," the executor says. "In ten days I will return to retrieve you."
"Yeah. Thanks."
The door shuts with a deep, loud sound that seems to echo through the floor. Seto walks to it, brushing a hand lightly over the gold-toned, curved handle. There is no visible lock, and he does not know what to make of it.
He leaves his belongings in the middle of the floor, making his way from one room to another. There is a sitting room with furniture all in deep wood and snowy white fabric, and a dining room with a table that could seat at least twenty. In the kitchen, Seto opens the refrigerator; true to his word, it is full of drinks and recently-procured meat, eggs, fresh fruit, and other perishables. He closes the door.
Off the kitchen is a long hallway of closed doors. He reaches for the first, twisting his fingers around the handle that does not move or open. He tries again, giving it more force. Still, the door does not open. Moving to the next, he finds that this door, too, will not move. He tries the next, almost hesitating, before twisting the knob. The door opens easily to reveal a dark, dusty closet, lined with cans of paint, holiday decorations, and piles of blankets and pillows. He closes the door, trying the next with renewed optimism. None of them open.
In the foyer, he lifts his bags, carrying them with him up the large, central staircase, purposefully trying to stamp as much dirt as he can from his boots to the red carpeted runner. The most prolific colors in the mansion seem to be red and white—certain rooms are saturated with each, to the point where he is overcome with the urge to change it, to rip the cushions open and tear the wallpaper, if only to disrupt the constant and unending homogeny—
He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Seto doesn't know where that thought had come from. It's the house, these old houses that seem the same on both the inside and out. Old houses have a memory of their own. The aged wood and brick settles with audible sighs and bends with the wind that matches its age. The windows see as though with eyes; the walls breathe as though with mouths to tell their tales. Old houses remember.
The first door he tries opens, so he tosses his bags inside and collapses on top of the bed without a word, closing his eyes and wondering if it's possible to sleep for ten days straight.
In the haze of his delirium he thinks he sees the outline of a figure making its way across the room, sitting at a desk near the corner, before standing and walking away. In a secondary haze he thinks he sees color, and the shifting blackness of shadows become a red blazer, muted in the near-darkness, and a brightness that blinds him until he finally opens his eyes to see the sun and a watch telling him that it's almost noon. The one window is open, white curtains blowing feverishly in the wind, and the door is closed, his suitcase leaning against one wall, the briefcase stacked neatly against it. Seto is in the process of unpacking, deciding already that this room would be his, when he realizes that he does not remember any of this—closing the door, stacking the baggage. His mind is a groggy mess, made even more muddled by the fact that he hadn't eaten anything since an early lunch the previous day.
"Well, it's no wonder I can't think straight. I haven't eaten anything." Speaking, even without an audience, is more comforting than the silence, so he stretches lightly and leaves, shrugging off his jacket, dismayed at the thought that he'd slept the night in it. He tests several more of the doors on the hallway, finding two that open into additional bedrooms of various color schemes. Everything seems to have been meticulously designed—likely by the owner himself, Seto thinks dryly—but these rooms seem so much more smaller, so much darker, it would be such a hassle to move his things.
He makes his way to the kitchen and cooks a few eggs and finds some bread in a cupboard, turning them into sandwiches. Against one wall he can see a phone, and just its simple presence is enough to make him think that it is possible to stay in this house for the next nine days. He eats quickly with a frown, surveying the boxes of pasta and crackers, stacked next to spices and small bottles of sauces. There is even a bag of flour! He bites into a second sandwich with a renewed vengeance, hating the way that his own cooking never tastes as good as anything anyone else seems to make. His talent is not in the kitchen.
He opens a door on a hallway he can't remember if he's walked through before or not—they all seem to look the same—and finds himself inside a study, with large bookshelves filled with books in a variety of languages and on a variety of disciplines. At random he picks one and settles himself into one of the room's chairs, reading. It's in English, one of those purported great works of literature, but his eyes droop more—possibly from the rapidly dimming, flickering light from the candles set at each of the corners, or from the darkness creeping in from somewhere else—
—Seto doesn't remember lighting candles, but how did they light themselves in the first place if not by him? His thumb catches the page as the book flops closed in his lap, his eyes shut as well in a deep, restful sleep.
When he opens them again, the room is dark, much darker than before, and as he slides off of the chair every muscle in his body feels heavy and uncomfortable, but as he moves towards the door something spins in his vision far off to the right, disorienting him, but Seto doesn't turn until his fingers touch the knob of the closed door and twist, only for it to remain tightly shut. He turns, what must be candle smoke clouding his vision, to see a silver-haired man standing before one of the bookshelves, drawing a line down the row of spines with his fingers.
"Are you enjoying my library?" he asks. "I enjoy the simple things, as you know."
"I know nothing about you," Seto manages to spit back. "Crawford."
"What is it, my dear?" His tone turns patronizing. "Am I not a good enough host for you? I do try, but some things just…slip through the cracks. I blame my untimely death. Wouldn't you?"
"I must be dreaming. This is absolutely ridiculous."
"Oh, you flatter me!" He moves only to clap both hands together; the sound is disjointed in the momentary silence. "Dreaming about me, are you? Can't say I disapprove."
"…You're dead." Seto rubs his eyes, trying to erase some of the heaviness from his body—probably due to the fact that he's still wearing the same clothes he arrived in, and he shivers at the realization, as if feeling every stiffness in the cotton duplicated in every pore of his own body. "What's wrong with this house?"
"Oh, noticed it, have you? It's my doing, of course—it is my house, after all. Would I lie to you?"
"When it suits you," Seto mutters.
"You think that if you budge an inch then you'll lose a mile, Seto," he says. "Is it really so hard to believe that I'm still here?"
"Yes." He moves towards the door again, testing it behind his back. Still closed.
The apparition of Crawford walks closer until the two are eye-to-eye. Unflinchingly, he reaches out an arm, and with a smirk rests it on Seto's shoulder, draping the wrist over the edge and letting his fingers skim the seams of Seto's shirt much the way they traced the spines of the novels on the bookshelf.
"Remove yourself." Two words, but Crawford frowns and returns his arm to his side. "What will it take for you—"
In return, Seto reaches up a hand towards his face as if to push the hair blocking his left eye out of the way, but Crawford snatches Seto's wrist in one hand, holding it with a surprising amount of strength. "No, not yet. You are not to see what I've become, unless you're truly prepared."
Swallowing, Seto tries to tug his hand free, and Crawford releases it with a smirk. "How does the saying go?" He takes a few steps backwards, and as he connects with the bookcase his entire body seems to go right through it.
"Oh, yes. Until we meet again, Seto."
The experience of sleeping in a chair of all places is even more discomfiting the second time Seto cracks open his eyes, realizing that he'd fallen asleep while reading. He leaves the book half-finished, and as he opens the door to leave he tries to think about why it seems so strange to him.
He showers and changes his clothes, drying his hair with a towel as he stands before a large mirror in his room. For the first time he sees it—the strangeness he hasn't noticed before but seems everywhere around him now. He remembers it, the odd lucid dream where he conversed with some strange, ghostly version of Pegasus Crawford, and Seto makes his way to an innocuously placed desk in the corner, staring at the pieces of sketch paper littering the surface, each covered with lines of pencil or paint too unfinished to be recognizable. He opens the drawer, trying not to feel like he's violating someone's privacy. Crawford is dead; he invited Seto here for a reason, and Seto is just beginning to think that it might not have been all for his own posthumous amusement or for Seto's stake in Duel Monsters.
Small containers of paints are neatly arranged, next to a few pencils and dry paintbrushes. He flips through the sketches again, finding an odd lump at the bottom. He unearths a paintbrush, its tip covered with dried brown paint. Seto drops it back to the desk and leaves, leaving the door open. He tests the others on the hall—they are all closed. He swears that before they opened for him.
He makes his way down the main staircase, grasping the phone and dialing the first number that he thinks of. First, to call Mokuba.
He picks up immediately with a "…hello? Who is this?"
"Mokuba? It's Seto."
"Seto? …How? You know what, I'm not even going to ask."
"How's the company?"
"I'm doing great, thanks for asking," Mokuba replies. "And for the company…well, things are mostly fine."
"What is it?" Seto asks.
"Hey, we just found out today—and you're not going to be happy with it—that one of our systems had been hacked. We don't know how much data the hacker acquired, but this happened a couple months ago. The programmer had been trying to cover up the failure since then, but now that we know we're building up our security…Seto? Are you still there?"
He holds the phone in tightly clenched fingers, not even wanting to ask but needing to know. "Yes, I'm still here. What was it that hacked?"
"…Solid Vision."
Seto sees red, but not from the décor. "What!"
"I know! We don't know how much they got, but we're trying to trace it with no luck. At least the systems now are much more secure, and it won't happen again."
"Make sure it doesn't," he says. "I'll only be here for another few days."
"Six days, by my watch," Mokuba replies. "Well, I hope things are nice and boring on your end, at least."
"…Yeah. Plenty."
"Bye, Seto." The phone clicks off.
Days pass. Nearly six of them in total, although Seto's not entirely sure how much time he's spent dreaming and how much he's spent awake. The rules of reality no longer seem to apply, and in every shadow of a mirror he thinks he sees a face that isn't his own, and when nighttime falls he thinks he can see a figure leaning against the doorframe of every room he enters, and trying to stay up as late as he can just to postpone the strange dreams doesn't seem to be working. He just ends up more tired than if he had spent the last week working, instead of reading books and business reports.
What finally pushes him off the edge, however, isn't the strange sightings of should-be-dead company leaders or his unpredictable sleep schedule, no. What finally does it is the food.
Seto stands in the kitchen, a pot of boiling water before him and an unopened box of pasta on the counter. He already knows he's going to overcook it, but he has to eat what he cooks—unless...
The phone is in his hands faster than he can think, the number dialed with grim determination. He is Seto Kaiba, and he is going to eat what he damn well pleases, even if it is—
"Domino Pizza, how can I help you?" the friendly voice at the other end answers.
"Listen, I'm Seto Kaiba." He probably sounds angrier than he intends, but right now he wants a pizza just about more than anything he's ever wanted in his life. "I will pay whatever it takes to have a pizza delivered immediately to my current location."
"Err—really? Well…what kind of pizza?"
"Surprise me, it doesn't matter. I need you to deliver this pizza to…" Suddenly, Seto realizes he doesn't even know the house's address. "I'll just give you directions." He does, relaying precisely the same path he had traveled from Domino to reach the mansion. "I will pay any associated travel expenses."
"This sounds pretty far, that'll be expensive—"
"I do not care how much it costs. I want a pizza, and someone will be at my front door in an hour with it. Thank you for your time." He hangs up the phone.
The waiting game is made easy when he only has to wait an hour, and the prospect of pizza is on the line. True to their word and Seto's expendable budget, there is a knock on the door. He opens it with a grin that instantly fades as he sees just who is standing on the doorstep.
"What are you doing here? I ordered a pizza, not an idiot."
"Well, we all can't have things our way, can we?" Jonouchi says, adjusting the box in his arms. "Are you going to let me inside?"
"Sure, it's not my house." Seto holds the door open as Jonouchi walks inside, shutting it as the two walk into the kitchen. "What do you mean, not your house?"
He had practically covered the will with a magnifying glass, but Seto does not remember seeing anything written about confidentiality. Still, he shrugs as Jonouchi sets the box down on the counter. Seto reaches for a slice, not even caring that it's half-cold. "What I said. What, can't you listen?"
Jonouchi leans against the counter, grabbing the closest slice. He takes a bite of the pizza, ignoring Seto's withering look. "Like you were going to tip me anyway. I just spent an hour driving out here, this is the least you could do."
"Alright, Jonouchi," Seto says. "You can take one slice for each duel you've ever won against me or Yugi."
"How generous. That's nothing," he replies flatly. "I should've known. Well, I'll get out of your hair, then."
Seto listens to the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor as he chews, before Jonouchi's voice calls, "very funny, Kaiba. The door won't open. Where's the lock?"
He almost drops the piece of pizza in his hands. Popping the last bit of crust in his mouth, he heads for the foyer, testing the door handle. "Nothing."
"What I said." Jonouchi crosses his arms. "What, can't you listen?"
"When you're not working as a pizza delivery boy, you should be a comedian." He tries again, but the door will not move. A sinking feeling spreads throughout his body, beginning with his stomach.
"This house has a way of locking and unlocking certain doors, arbitrarily…I have no idea why it locked, now."
"This house? You say that like it's alive or something."
"Or something," Seto replies. "The house actually belongs to Pegasus J. Crawford. As part of his will, if I stay here for ten days, I get control of the Duel Monsters card manufacturing."
"He got what was coming to him," Jonouchi says. "So, what—a door without a lock won't open? Just break the thing open. Better yet, go bust out a window. I'm not staying here any longer than I have to."
"I can't," he snaps. "The house can't come under any…structural damage while I'm here. It's in the contract. I will not let you bust out a window, as you so elegantly put it, and waste the time I've already spent here."
"Which is?"
"Eight, today."
"…And you just now break down and order pizza? That would've been my day one," Jonouchi says. "I won't destroy any windows if you give me some rare cards."
"Done. I'm going to finish this pizza. You do whatever you want."
As Seto finishes the pizza, he almost manages to ignore Jonouchi, but the sound of doors opening and closing down the halls makes it difficult. Finally, there is a silence so disquieting that Seto turns and heads down the hallway, pausing at the end of it before an open door. Jonouchi is inside, looking around, but Seto already recognizes the familiar paneling and the distinctive red leather armchair in the corner. He can almost imagine Crawford sitting there, the camera placed almost where Jonouchi is standing now, staring right through it to where Seto himself stands, frozen in the doorway.
"You look like you just saw a ghost," Jonouchi remarks.
The flinch that accompanies it is barely noticeable, but the only indication Jonouchi gives that he detects it is a frown. "I'm going to look for other doors—there's got to be more than one way into this place, right? You should get some rest, Kaiba, you look awful."
"I don't recall asking for your opinion," he replies. He pauses again in the doorframe, giving the room another quick glance before turning and walking back down the hallway, leaving the empty pizza box and taking the stairs two at a time, just to distance himself from the eerie room where Pegasus Crawford had delivered his filmed testament. His fingers hover over the light switch in his room—he doesn't want to dream again, but he has more than a few questions that only Crawford could answer.
"This is my dream," Seto says, ignoring the patronizing smile Crawford was sending his way from the other side of the room. "So I should be able to make you disappear."
"Would you really like that?" Crawford's voice seems to be coming from everywhere around him, and the next time Seto turns Crawford is sitting on the edge of the bed behind him instead of standing in the corner where he'd been only a second earlier.
"I had your soul in a card, once. It was mine." The look he gives Seto now is hungry and predatory, and there is a shine to his visible eye that seems almost unreal. "I want it back."
"It's going to take more than a few parlor tricks to get that," Seto says. "No one can cheat death, not even you. How did you do it? How did you die?"
"Follow me a little deeper, Seto." Crawford's voice rings like laughter, although his grin is a little too wide for it, a little too unnatural. "What, you think you can replace the Blue-Eyes that was destroyed? There can never be more than the four that were created. After they were made, I had the presses and the files destroyed. You couldn't recreate the exact same card if you tried."
He leans forward with dizzying closeness, that same predatory smile shaping his words. "What else do you think is in this house? What will you say to me? What do you say to the person who once took your soul?"
"I say nothing," Seto says, turning his body and shifting so he is no longer facing Crawford. He closes his eyes. "Because you're not real. You're dead."
A hand firmly presses down on Seto's right arm, in a reminder far more hostile than comforting. "Keep reminding me of this, and see where it takes you. What I could not have in life, I will have in death, and neither you nor your amusing distraction will stop me."
His eyes open again, briefly. "Jonouchi…?"
"I know it's not my business," Jonouchi says, digging into a half-grapefruit; the other half, untouched, rested in a bowl in front of Seto. "But I heard some really weird stuff last night."
"What could possibly be weirder than the two of us at a breakfast table?"
"How about the fact that I heard...Crawford's voice. So I went to investigate, and I heard you having a conversation with...this voice, and then, I heard you say my name—"
"Laughable. Unless we both had the same dream, which is impossible."
Jonouchi looked back down at his grapefruit; Seto hadn't denied it, and he didn't know what to think about that. "Kaiba, either it was you throwing voices—which I haven't completely discounted—or it was some strange ghost of Crawford—"
"—Impossible," Seto interrupts.
"So it doesn't seem strange to you at all that Crawford draws you here with a promise that's too good to be true, so you can do nothing but sit around his house all day and what, have really strange dreams? Wake up, Kaiba, that's only half the picture. What could he possibly gain from that?"
"Ghosts aren't real, and Crawford is dead. When people die, that tends to be permanent."
"His eye might have something to do with it," Jonouchi muses. "You are not dreaming. What you see is real. Screw that will—just bust through a window and we can let someone else worry about this."
The will was written for every provision, to maximize every opportunity—no technology, no contact, no leaving, only isolation, in an old house made older by its legacy and those who reside within it, dead or alive.
"I won't," he says. "Don't you see that I cannot leave? Not when I am so close. Everything I've ever dreamed of, right at my fingertips…once the night is over, I win. There is no other alternative."
Seto pauses before the open door of his bedroom, before kneeling to study the plate where the lock should be carefully. It is impossible that a house this large wouldn't have locks, yet they just weren't visible—perhaps he was looking in the wrong place?
Magnetic locks…Seto touches the tip of the metal plate set into the door, solid where there would normally be a space for the bolt. He wouldn't put something like this past someone like Crawford, but he knows that magnetic locks only continue to operate when there is a source of electricity. He glances at his watch; nightfall would be approaching soon.
"Jonouchi!" Seto leaves the door to hurry down the stairs, taking them two at a time, hearing his voice calling out faintly, "over here, in the library."
Seto remembers at the very beginning of the week how he had seen Crawford there—it had been real after all, not a dream as he had first thought—and how the door had locked, unmoving. There had been no escape, not from those doors.
A strange clicking sound fills the air, and as the door to the library swings shut, the others on the hall open wide, for the first time opening themselves to their guests, but Seto does not care about what they have to offer.
"Jonouchi! I've figured it out—the doors lock magnetically! If I can get to the circuit breaker and shut off the power, all the locks will fail."
"Find it!" Jonouchi shouts to be heard through the thick wooden door, trying the doorknob once more before turning to face the specter, lounging with a book in a dark green chair.
"Hello, Katsuya Jonouchi," Crawford says. "We've never been formally introduced, have we? Needless to say, you have something I want very much."
Seto spares hardly a glance for each room that he passes. One is filled with paintings, of scenes of nature and various women and men, one in particular with what looks like freshly applied brown paint—
He turns to the next room as he passes, knowing from his first inspection of the house where the basement is located, down a rambling flight of stairs. He just hopes he can locate the box in time, and that none of the other locks trap him just as they have Jonouchi.
The next room he passes is just as unusual; the room is brightly painted, a childish blue color, a bedroom by the small bed pushed against one corner of the wall and the boxes of toys, all covered in a thick, undisturbed layer of dust. Seto has no desire to see Crawford's childhood room; he has no desire to see Crawford at all, but if he is not with Seto here, then the only place he can be is in the library with Jonouchi. Seto moves faster, keeping one hand on the banister as he descends the stairs.
"My dear Katsuya, whatever did I do to you? Because of my money, your sister will be able to see again, correct? You should be thanking me."
"Leave my family out of this," Jonouchi says. "There is nothing you could ever offer me that could convince me to change my mind."
"But the mind is so easily changed," Crawford says softly, "so easily swayed. Do you want to try to sway mine? I do think yours will be a much easier challenge."
"Kaiba will not—"
"—Ah, yes," Crawford interrupts. "Dear Seto. Perhaps he would be a better target, hmm? Is it so wrong to want something you once had? When something is yours, you want to keep it forever, but forever doesn't exist! Only in here…only in technology and these Items, can we find it. I spent my life's work researching and creating such things, but there is still so much more to be done."
"What do you want?" Jonouchi asks.
"It's so simple! Only one thing. Will you join me? Come with me? With my power, you could have whatever you want. Whoever you want. No more delivering pizzas at nights. If you give in to me, think of what the three of us together could accomplish? Just give in to me. Just let me possess you, and we both can have what we want."
The basement is dimly lit by the few overhead lights with still-working bulbs. Seto stumbles through the large, low space, scanning the walls until he sees it. The silver covering of the box shines even in the weak light, and he runs for it, ignoring the waving, calling doors. It does not matter what secrets they have to share or what possessions they contain. Right now, they are not worthy of his attention.
He rips open the covering, scanning the series of levers and switches. One by one, he pulls each lever down in quick succession, until at last the basement is dropped into complete darkness with the last flipped switch. The clicking has stopped; the doors remain immobile.
He does not close the cover, but keeps it open as he staggers his way back towards the staircase, moving by feel and memory, until the toes of his shoes at last touch the stairs and he can use the banister to pull himself up, taking the stairs as quickly as he can without stumbling. Once he reaches the hallway, only the faint, thin light from the windows can reach him through the open doors, but he wastes no time to stride down the hallway, eventually finding himself standing before the closed door to the library. He grasps the doorknob with his right hand, resting his forehead lightly against the chipped white paint before he twists it and it opens.
Inside, someone is standing with his back to the door. He turns, and even in the wash of moonlight there is no mistaking Jonouchi. Seto enters, confident that the doors will not close behind him again.
"Crawford?"
"He disappeared," Jonouchi says. "One second the lights were cut, and when my eyes adjusted I realized I couldn't see him anymore. Just like that, he's gone."
"Just like that," Seto echoes, finding a smile spreading across his face. He hopes the darkness is enough to cover it.
"Was it because of the power? Was he somehow just a form of technology? Or—"
Solid Vision, Seto thinks to himself. "It's certainly possible," he replies. "I don't know. What I do know, is that I'm never coming back to this house again after tomorrow, so it doesn't matter."
"I agree with that," Jonouchi says. "Good riddance."
One suitcase, one briefcase, and two young men impatiently wait by the threshold for the executor. Right on time, the door opens, and they do not hesitate to cross it. It closes behind them, and the executor locks it with a barely audible click.
End.
Notes:
1) Fever Dream is a type of dream suffered when the person is experiencing a fever. It sounds rather obvious when I put it that way, huh? xD
2) I tried to make my information on wills and magnetic locks as fairly accurate as possible, although I took artistic liberties with their incorporation into the story.
3) I have set this story in the Games verse (alongside Slash and Burn and The Hanged Man). Although this story does not directly incorporate either, the central plot revolves around the idea of a challenge/game, and the '10 days' bit is a direct reference to S & B.
4) The ambiguous ending is entirely intentional - it's up to the reader to decide whether they think it was a real ghost or a holographic creation of Pegasus'. Or something completely different, if that's what you think.
5) Domino Pizza's name is a direct reference to the actual pizza chain Domino's, because I thought it was funny.
5) Thank you for reading. I would appreciate and value your reviews!
~Jess